Александр Дюма
The Queen's Necklace
CHAPTER LX.
THE RECEIPT OF MM. BŒHMER AND BOSSANGE, AND THE GRATITUDE OF THE QUEEN
The result of Madame de la Motte's visit to M. Reteau de Villette appeared the next day. At seven o'clock in the morning she sent to the queen the following paper:
"We, the undersigned, acknowledge having received back again the diamond necklace sold to the queen for 1,600,000 francs, the diamonds not suiting her majesty, who has paid us for our loss and trouble 100,000 francs.
"Bœhmer and Bossange."
The queen, now tranquil about the whole affair, locked up the receipt, and thought no more of it.
But, in strange contradiction to this receipt, the jewelers received a visit two days after from M. de Rohan, who felt uneasy about the payment.
If the instalment had not been paid, he expected to find them naturally annoyed; but to his great satisfaction they received him with smiles.
"The queen has paid, then?" he asked.
"No, monseigneur, the queen could not procure the money, as the king had refused it to her; but she has guaranteed the debt, and that fully satisfies us."
"Ah! so much the better; but how? Through the countess?"
"No, monseigneur. On hearing of the king's refusal, which soon became public, we wrote to Madame de la Motte – "
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"And she replied?"
"By one word, 'Wait.' That evening we received from the queen, by a courier, a letter."
"A letter to you?"
"Or rather a guarantee, in due form."
"Let me see it."
"Oh! we would with pleasure, but her majesty enjoins that it is not to be shown to any one."
"Then you are safe?"
"Perfectly, monseigneur."
"The queen acknowledges the debt?"
"Fully."
"And engages to pay?"
"500,000 francs in three months, the rest in six;" and she adds, "let the affair rest between ourselves. You will have no cause to repent it."
"I am charmed that it is settled," said the cardinal.
We must now raise the veil, though, doubtless, our readers comprehend how Jeanne de la Motte had acted towards her benefactress, and how she had managed to satisfy both the queen and the jewelers by borrowing the pen of M. Reteau.
Three months were thus obtained for the completion of her design of crime and deception, and within three months everything would be arranged.
She went to M. de Rohan, and repeated to him what the jewelers had already told him.
He asked if the queen remembered his good intentions. She drew a picture of her gratitude, which enchanted him.
Her intention had been to sell some of the diamonds to the value of 100,000 crowns, and then pass over to England, where, when necessary, she could dispose of the remainder. But her first essay frightened her; some offered despicably small sums for the stones, others went into raptures, declaring they had never seen such diamonds but in the necklace of MM. Bœhmer and Bossange.
She abandoned this course, therefore, which she saw might soon bring about her ruin. She shut up the diamonds carefully, and resolved to wait. But her position was critical. A few words of explanation between the queen and the cardinal, and all would be discovered. She consoled herself by thinking that the cardinal was too much in love not to fall into all the snares she might lay for him.
One thought alone occupied her – how to prevent their meeting. That he would not be long satisfied without an interview she knew – what should she do? Persuade him to ask for one, and offend the queen by his presumption? – but then the queen would speak her anger out, and all would come to light. She must compromise her, and endeavor so to close her lips. But if they met by chance, what remained for her but flight? That was easy; a few hours would suffice. Then, again, she thought of the name she would leave behind her, and bear with her; no longer a woman of rank, but a thief, whom justice only does not reach, because she is too far off. No, she would not fly, if she could help it. She would try what audacity and skill could do, remain here and act between them. "To prevent them from meeting – that is the difficulty, as he is in love, and a prince, who has a right to see the queen; and she is now grateful and will no longer fly from him; but if I excite him to too open an admiration and disgust her, I alienate them more than ever. She will take fire easily, but what I want is something to make the queen tremble as well as him; something which would give me power to say, 'If you accuse me, I will accuse you and ruin you – leave me my wealth, and I will you your honor.' This is what I must seek for, and what I must find."
CHAPTER LXI.
THE PRISONER
Meanwhile a different scene was passing in the Rue St. Claude, where M. de Cagliostro had lodged Oliva in the old house, to keep her from the pursuit of the police. There she lived, retired, and almost happy: Cagliostro lavished care and attentions on her, and she liked being protected by this great lord, who asked nothing from her in return. Only what did he want? she often asked herself, uselessly, for he must have some object. Her amour propre made her decide that after all he was in love with her; and she began to build castles in the air in which we must confess poor Beausire now very rarely had a place. Therefore the two visits a week paid to her by Cagliostro were always eagerly looked forward to, and between them she amused herself with her dreams, and playing the great lady. However, her books were soon read through, at least such as suited her taste, and pictures and music soon wearied her. She soon began to regret her mornings passed at the windows of the Rue Dauphine, where she used to sit to attract the attention of the passers-by; and her delightful promenades in the Quartier St. Germain, where so many people used to turn to look after her. True, the police-agents were formidable people, but what availed safety if she was not amused; so she first regretted her liberty, and then regretted Beausire.
Then she began to lose her appetite for want of fresh air, for she had been used to walk every day.
One day, when she was bemoaning her fate, she received an unexpected visit from Cagliostro. He gave his accustomed signal, and she opened the door, which was always kept bolted, with an eagerness which showed her delight; and, seizing his hands, she cried, in an impatient voice, "Monsieur, I am ennuyée here."
"This is unlucky, my dear child."
"I shall die here."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Well," said he, soothingly, "do not blame me, blame the lieutenant of police, who persecutes you."
"You exasperate me with your sang froid, monsieur; I would rather you flew in a passion."
"Confess, mademoiselle, that you are unreasonable," said he, seating himself.
"It is all very well for you to talk," replied she; "you come and go as you like, you breathe the fresh air, your life is full of pleasure. I vegetate in the space to which you have limited me, and your assistance, is useless to me if I am to die here."
"Die!" said the count, smiling.
"You behave very badly to me; you forget that I love passionately."
"M. Beausire?"
"Yes, Beausire, I love him. I always told you so. Did you think I had forgotten him?"
"So little did I think so, mademoiselle, that I bring you news of him."
"Ah!"
"He is a charming person, young and handsome, is he not?"
"Full of imagination and fire, rather rough toward me, but that is his way of showing his love."
"Therefore I wished to take you back to him."
"You did not wish that a month ago."
"No, but when I see how you love him."
"Ah! you are laughing at me."
"Oh, no, you have resisted all my advances so well."
"Yes, have I not?"
"It was your love for him."
"But yours, then, was not very tenacious."
"No, I am neither old enough nor ugly enough, neither poor enough nor foolish enough, to run the risk of a refusal; and I saw that you would always have preferred Beausire."
"Oh, but," cried the coquette, using her eyes, which had remained idle so long, "this famous compact which you proposed to me, the right of always giving me your arm, of visiting me when you liked; did that give you no hope?"
Cagliostro did not reply, but turned his eyes as if dazzled by her glances.
"Let us return to Beausire," she said, piqued at his indifference; "why have you not brought him here? it would have been a charity. He is free – "
"Because," replied Cagliostro, "Beausire has too much imagination, and has also embroiled himself with the police."
"What has he done?"
"Oh, a delightful trick, a most ingenious idea; I call it a joke, but matter-of-fact people – and you know how matter-of-fact M. de Crosne can be – call it a theft."
"A theft!" cried Oliva, frightened. "Is he arrested?"
"No, but he is pursued."
"And is he in danger?"
"That I cannot tell you; he is well hunted for, and if you were together, the chances of his being taken would be doubled."
"Oh, yes, he must hide, poor fellow; I will hide too; let me leave France, monsieur. Pray render me this service; for if I remain shut up here, I shall end by committing some imprudence."
"What do you call imprudence?"
"Oh, just getting some fresh air."
"I do not want to prevent your getting fresh air; you would lose your beauty, and M. Beausire would love you no longer. Open the windows as much as you like."
"Oh, I see I have offended you; you care no more about me."
"Offended me – how?"
"Because you had taken a fancy to me, and I repulsed you. A man of your consequence, a handsome man like you, has a right to be angry at being rejected by a poor girl like me. But do not abandon me, sir, I entreat;" and she put her arms round his neck.
"Poor little thing," said he, kissing her forehead; "do not be afraid; I am not angry or offended. Indeed, were you to offer me your love, I should refuse you, so much do I desire to inspire pure sentiments. Besides, I should think you influenced more by gratitude than love; so we will remain as we are, and I will continue to protect you."
Oliva let his hand fall, humiliated, and duped by the pretended generosity of Cagliostro. "Oh, I shall say henceforth," she cried, "that there are men superior to what I ever thought."
"All women are good," thought Cagliostro, "if you only touch the right chord. – From this evening," he said aloud, "you shall move to other rooms, where the windows look on Menilmontant and the Bellevue. You need not fear to show yourself to the neighbors; they are all honest, simple people, who will never suspect you. Only keep a little back from the window, lest any one passing through the street should see you. At least you will have air and sunshine."
Oliva looked pleased.
"Shall I conduct you there now?"
"Oh, yes."
He took a light, and she followed him up a staircase to the third story, and entered a room, completely furnished, and ready for occupation.
"One would think it was prepared for me," she said.
"Not for you, but for myself; I like this place, and often come here to sleep. Nothing shall be wanting to make you comfortable, and your femme-de-chambre shall attend you in a quarter of an hour." And he left the room.
The poor prisoner sat down by her elegant bed, murmuring, "I understand nothing of all this."
CHAPTER LXII.
THE LOOK OUT
Oliva went to bed, and slept better. She admired the count, whom she did not in the least understand. She could no longer think him timid; she did not suspect that he was only cold and insensible. She felt pleased at the perfect safety in which he assured her she was; and in the morning she examined her new rooms, and found them nobly and luxuriously furnished, and enjoyed immensely her privilege of going out into the balcony, filled with flowers, and where she got sunshine and fresh air, although she drew back whenever she saw any one approaching, or heard a carriage coming. There were not many, however, in the Rue St. Claude. She could see the château of Menilmontant, the great trees in the cemetery, myriads of houses of all colors; and she could see the fields beyond, full of children at play, and the peasants trotting along the roads on their donkeys. All this charmed Oliva, who had always a heart of love for the country, since she had left Taverney Maison-Rouge. At last, getting tired of this distant view, she began to examine the houses opposite to her. In some, she saw birds in cages; and in one, hung with yellow silk curtains, and ornamented with flowers, she thought she could distinguish a figure moving about. She called her femme-de-chambre to make inquiries about them; but the woman could only show her mistress all the churches, and tell her the names of the streets; she knew nothing of the neighbors. Oliva therefore sent her away again, and determined to watch for herself.
She saw some open their doors, and come out for a walk, and others variously occupied. At last she saw the figure of a woman seat herself in an armchair, in the room with the yellow curtains, and abandon her head for an hour and a half to a hair-dresser, while he built up one of those immense edifices worn at that time, in which minerals, vegetables, and even animals, were introduced. At last, it was complete: Oliva thought she looked pretty, and admired her little foot, encased in a rose-colored slipper, which rested on another chair. She began to construct all sorts of romances about this lady, and made various movements to attract her attention, but she never turned her eyes that way, as that room had never before been occupied, and she began to despair. The lady was, of course, Jeanne de Valois, who was deeply absorbed in devising some scheme for preventing the queen and the cardinal from meeting. At last, Oliva, turning suddenly round, knocked over a flower-pot which fell from the balcony with a crash: at the sound the lady turned and saw her, and clasping her hands she called out, "The Queen;" but looking again, she murmured, "Oh! I sought for a means to gain my end, and I have found one." Then, hearing a sound behind her, Oliva turned and saw Cagliostro, and came in directly.
CHAPTER LXIII.
THE TWO NEIGHBORS
Cagliostro recommended her using the greatest circumspection, and, above all, not to make friends with her neighbors; but she did not feel disposed to relinquish the intercourse which she hoped for with her fair neighbor opposite. She, however, promised to obey him; but he was no sooner gone than she returned to her balcony, hoping to attract her attention again. Nor was she disappointed, for Jeanne, who was watching for her, acknowledged her with a bow and by kissing her hand. This went on for two days. Jeanne was ever ready to wave her a good morning, or an adieu when she went out.
Cagliostro, at his next visit, informed Oliva that an unknown person had paid a visit to her hotel.
"What do you mean?" cried Oliva.
"A very pretty and elegant lady presented herself here, and asked the servant who inhabited this story, and wished to see you. I fear you are discovered; you must take care, the police have female spies as well as male, and I warn you, that if M. de Crosne claims you, I cannot refuse to give you up."
Oliva was not at all frightened, she recognized the portrait of her opposite neighbor, and felt delighted at this advance, but she dissembled with the count, and said, "Oh! I am not at all frightened; no one has seen me; she could not have meant me."
"But she said a lady in these rooms."
"Well, I will be more careful than ever, and, besides, this house is so impenetrable."
"Yes, without climbing the wall, which is not easy, or opening the little door with a key like mine, which I never lend, no one can come in, so I think you are safe."
Oliva overwhelmed the count with thanks and protestations, but at six o'clock the next morning she was out in the balcony. She had not long to wait before Jeanne appeared, who, after looking cautiously up and down the street, and observing that all the doors and windows were still closed, and that everything was quiet, called across, "I wish to pay you a visit, madame; is it impossible to see you?"
"Alas, yes!" said Oliva.
"Can I send a letter?"
"Oh, no!"
Jeanne, after a moment's thought, left her balcony, but soon returned with a cross-bow, with which she shot a little wooden ball right through the open window of Oliva's room.
She picked it up and found wrapped round it the following note:
"You interest me, beautiful lady. I find you charming, and love you only by having seen you. Are you a prisoner? I vainly tried to obtain admission to you. Does the enchanter who guards you never let any one approach you? Will you be my friend? If you cannot go out, you can at least write, and as I go out when I please, wait till you see me pass, and then throw out your answer. Tie a thread to your balcony, and attach your note to it; I will take it off and fasten mine on, and in the dark no one will observe us. If your eyes have not deceived me, I count on a return of my affection and esteem, and between us we will outwit any one.
"Your Friend."
Oliva trembled with joy when she read this note. She replied as follows:
"I love you as you love me. I am a victim of the wickedness and cruelty of men; but he who keeps me here is a protector and not a tyrant; he comes to see me nearly every day. I will explain all this some day; but, alas! I cannot go out; I am locked up. Oh! if I could but see you; there is so much we cannot write.
"Your friend,"Oliva Legay."
Then, when evening came, she let the thread fall over the balcony. Jeanne, who was below, caught it, and half an hour afterwards attached to it the following answer:
"You seem generally alone. How is your house secured – with a key? Who has this key? Could you not borrow or steal it? It would be no harm, but would procure you a few hours of liberty, or a few walks with a friend, who would console you for all your misfortune."
Oliva devoured this eagerly. She had remarked that when the count came in he put down his lantern and the key on a chiffonier. So she prepared some wax to take the impression of the key at his first visit. This she accomplished without his once turning to look at her, and as soon as he was gone, she put it into a little box, and lowered it to Jeanne, with a note.
The next day she received the following answer:
"My Dearest,
"To-night, at eleven o'clock, you will descend and unlock the door, when you will find yourself in the arms of your faithful friend."
Oliva felt more charmed than with the most tender love-letter that she had ever received. At the appointed time she went down and met Jeanne, who embraced her tenderly, and made her get into a carriage that waited a little way off; they remained out two hours, and parted with kisses and protestations of affection. Jeanne learned the name of Oliva's protector; she feared this man, and determined to preserve the most perfect mystery as to her plans. Oliva had confided everything to her about Beausire, the police, and all. Jeanne gave herself out for a young lady of rank, living here secretly, without the knowledge of her friends. One knew all, the other nothing. From this day, then, it was no longer necessary to throw out notes; Jeanne had her key, and carried off Oliva whenever she pleased. "M. de Cagliostro suspects nothing?" she often asked Oliva.
"Oh! no," she would reply; "I do not think he would believe it if I told him."
A week passed thus.
CHAPTER LXIV.
THE RENDEZVOUS
When Charny arrived at his estates, the doctor ordered him to keep within doors, and not receive visitors; orders which he rigorously obeyed, to the great disappointment of all the young ladies in the neighborhood, who were most anxious to see this young man, reputed to be at once so brave and so handsome. His malady, however, was more mental than bodily; he was devoured by regrets, by longings, and by ennui; so, after a week, he set off one night on horseback, and, before the morning, was at Versailles. He found a little house there, outside the park, which had been empty for some time; it had been inhabited by one of the king's huntsmen, who had cut his throat, and since then the place had been deserted. There Charny lived in profound solitude; but he could see the queen from afar when she walked in the park with her ladies, and when she went in again he could see her windows from his own, and watch her lights every evening until they disappeared; and he even fancied he could see her shadow pass before the window. One evening he had watched all this as usual, and after sitting two hours longer at his window, was preparing to go to bed, for midnight was striking from a neighboring clock, when the sound of a key turning in a lock arrested his attention. It was that of a little door leading into the park, only twenty paces from his cottage, and which was never used, except sometimes on hunting-days. Whoever it was that entered did not speak, but closed it again quietly, and entered an avenue under his windows. At first Charny could not distinguish them through the thick wood, though he could hear the rustling of dresses; but as they emerged into an open space, and bright moonlight, he almost uttered a cry of joy in recognizing the tournure of Marie Antoinette, and a glimpse of her face; she held in her hand a beautiful rose. Stifling his emotion, he stepped down as quietly as possible into the park, and hid behind a clump of trees, where he could see her better. "Oh!" thought he, "were she but alone, I would brave tortures, or death itself, that I might once fall on my knees before her, and tell her, 'I love you!'" Oh, were she but menaced by some danger, how gladly would he have risked his life to save hers. Suddenly the two ladies stopped, and the shortest, after saying a few words to her companion in a low voice, left her. The queen, therefore, remained alone, and Charny felt inclined to run towards her; but he reflected that the moment she saw him she would take fright, and call out, and that her cries would first bring back her companion, and then the guards; that his retreat would be discovered, and he should be forced to leave it. In a few minutes the other lady reappeared, but not alone. Behind her came a man muffled up in a large cloak, and whose face was concealed by a slouch hat.
This man advanced with an uncertain and hesitating step to where the queen stood, when he took off his hat and made a low bow. The surprise which Charny felt at first soon changed into a more painful feeling. Why was the queen in the park at this time of night? Who was this man who was waiting for her, and whom she had sent her companion to fetch? Then he remembered that the queen often occupied herself with foreign politics, much to the annoyance of the king. Was this a secret messenger from Schoenbrunn, or from Berlin? This idea restored him to some degree of composure. The queen's companion stood a few steps off, anxiously watching lest they should be seen; but it was as necessary to guard against spies in a secret political rendezvous as in one of love. After a short time Charny saw the gentleman bow to the ground, and turn to leave, when the companion of the queen said to him, "Stop." He stopped, and the two ladies passed close to Charny, who could even recognize the queen's favorite scent, vervain, mixed with mignonette. They passed on, and disappeared. A few moments after the gentleman passed; he held in his hand a rose, which he pressed passionately to his lips. Did this look political? Charny's head turned; he felt a strong impulse to rush on this man and tear the flower from him, when the queen's companion reappeared, and said, "Come, monseigneur." He joined her quickly, and they went away. Charny remained in a distracted state, leaning against the tree.
